The Sade Dominion Posts

The chamber is cold, damp and dark. a hard and worn box springs setting on cinder blocks with two blocks more at the foot than the head giving it a pronounced, but not absurd slanted angle. It is bolted at the top and bottom to a rusted metal head and foot board. Silence except for the faint sound of water slowly dripping somewhere in the distance and a clock, ticking, ticking, endlessly ticking.

Hooded with heavy material so no light seeps through. Sounds are muffled except for the faint dripping and ticking… always the ticking. Wondering if it has been ten minutes or two hours, time has lost meaning in the dark and the cold. Blood accumulating in your head as your body slopes down feet to head. Springs not digging into your bare flesh but felt through the thin, worn cover that is the old box springs. Shifting an inch this way, that the other to alleviate the ache but none of the small movements that can be accomplished yield relief.

Flesh exposed. Every inch uncovered save for the rough leather of the cuffs on ankles and wrists… and the infernal hood. Damn the hood! The cuffs not so tight that circulation is cut, but tight enough to steal all hope of slipping out of them. Arms and legs pulled taut with rope from cuffs to steel corner posts. No room to adjust, no give to relieve the ache. Legs and thighs aching from the unnaturally wide angle they have been forced into.

Minutes? Hours? Days? And the ticking… the ticking.

Nipples throbbing from the earlier abuse. Was it the clamps? Or maybe the small nooses that were affixed to them and hung with those weights? You don’t know. You don’t remember. Each small torture added to the cumulative ache that just won’t abate. And why won’t the stinging heat on your inner thighs lessen? The open handed slaps followed by the … what? With the hood already affixed, there was no way of knowing what it was … a crop perhaps? Or was it a cane? It makes no difference as the memories of each lash is burning into your mind’s eye.

And the hardened wax on your thighs and your stomach and your breasts. How each drop inflicted its own pinpoint burst of pain for just a moment until the next hit somewhere else. Focusing on the one only to be stolen away by the next. No time to mentally absorb the one before the next was arrived.

And what did you do to earn the earlier lesson? And how could a simple question about just that land you in your current state? How are you expected to learn to please when nothing is told, just punishment received for whatever slight or error that was made with no intent and no knowledge.

And the dripping. Wondering when it will stop only to hear the tick, the tick.

Footsteps. You want to beg for forgiveness. For what you don’t know but that is unimportant. Please forgive. But how can you plead? You are hooded and under the hood your mouth has been pried open with a spider gag, drool running down both cheeks and collecting at the base of your neck in the back. The hood is wet and uncomfortable back there but there is no way to alleviate it.

And then you feel it. Cold, hard and slippery. Your anus clenches as something is worked just a small bit into you. And then it is gone. No, it is back twisting and pushing up your ass, forcing itself in. Wider and wider. It feels as though it will rip you apart. And then it is gone. Nothing. Your eyes jolt open to more blackness as it is suddenly forced hard and completely inside of you in a most uncomfortable yet satisfying way. And then … ticking, ticking.

Your mind races. What have I done? How can I make it right? What will please him? Will I ever know? And if I learn, will it not just change at his whim?

The feeling of the goose bumps growing as the chill in the basement overtakes the aches and the stretched anus. The shivering. It is so cold save for your thighs that still burn. And the tick. The tick.

And you hear a whisper close to your ear… Have you learned your lesson? You want to scream that you have and that you are sorry and that you will never do it again even though you have no idea what to learn or to do or to avoid. But you can’t speak more than a guttural moan. And you drift off, overloaded and overcome. No sensations. No dreams or terrors. Just nothingness.

I am trying to understand most Americans’ hang up with sex and “deviation” from the missionary position. There is so much out there to explore and experience. One of my friends honestly got into a debate with a co-worker, and I use debate lightly as they were barely audible, about who should be on top – the male or female. I couldn’t help myself; “Give me a break,” I said. They were not talking to me, and like I said, they were whispering, but they were like a foot from me. Since they have recently come to know some of my sexual predilections, I assumed they wanted me to hear. “We were not really asking your opinion.”

“Obviously not,” I replied, ” as I am not from the Victorian era where a woman lain quietly underneath her partner and politely and quietly faked an orgasm.” I left the room to glares and more whispers and pondered what the heck was wrong with some people.

One of my favorite blogs, This D/s Life, and the current post , which consists of Molly, the sub, talking about an event that she and her Dom attend regularly. You see, the men dress in suites and the women are naked – for the entire event, buffet and all. You will have to read the post to get the whole story, but it was simply the idea that such an event existed, and has existed for it to become a ritual for the couple that got me thinking that I could not be in the minority.

I cannot say that I have ever attended such an event. Unless I can find a great disguise as my profession would not allow for that public expression of my liberal views on sex, I doubt I will ever have the opportunity. With that being said, this post jump-started my desire to do more in places where I am not exposed so publicly. I already have silk sashes, leather cuffs, a riding crop, paddles and the like. I am the Dom, as I have said before, having been trained by the Marquis, but I do allow for some leeway at times. I do love a good spanking. In the end, being tied to my bed, naked, waiting for my partner to come back and fuck me is not such a bad thing.

“I like it doggie style” is what I will say next time those naive “women” whisper next to my desk. See how that suits them.

I have been talking to people about bondage, sex play and sex paraphernalia. One, people are shocked that I know of such things. Apparently a professional in my field should be prudish. Two, people become embarrassed discussing what one might want to purchase in order to add some passion and fantasy into the bedroom or kitchen or parking garage elevator. Why is sex talk still so taboo? What is so awful about being sexually graphic?

Words like fuck and blow job appear to be commonplace in 21st century TV and film, so why all the hushed voices and sideways glances?

I am sitting in a cafe with some acquaintances. I have known most of them for at least fives years, but because I am a private person for the most part, all they know of me is centered around work or my pets. The conversation is tiresome, so I ask everyone what their first vibrator was. “Mine was the rabbit, ” I say. *Crickets chirping.* Then loud and nervous laughter. Then a return to mundane chatter about nothing.

I say, “I like to be tied up, spanked and fucked until I lose consciousness.” *Deafening silence. From the whole cafe, or so it seems.* My lunch companions stare at me or through me, I am not quite certain. Finally one says, “I just can’t talk about those things. Not over lunch anyways.”

When can she talk about it? I have met with these same people for dinner, drinks, festivals, art shows, and the same thing always happens when I try to turn the discussion to sex. THESE ARE GROWN WOMEN! They complain about equal rights, loss of empowerment, sexism and yet, the thought of discussing good ways to give a blow job frightens them into silence.

I cannot, in all honestly, lay all the blame at the feet of my female companions, when on many occasions, male acquaintances of ours join our night out on the town. I say, “What is your favorite why to fuck someone?” *Boisterous laughter.* No answer. I persist.

“Joe Blow, is your favorite thing to be given a blow job? Where was the strangest place you got head?” *Because I have some knowledge of Joe (hence the name I have given him here), I am fairly certain of his fantasies. He says, “I am not into the fantasy thing.” LIAR! WTF! I just played sexy teacher two weeks ago, sucking your penis until I thought you might go into a coma!

Honestly, if we cannot talk about sex then what’s the fun of “sharing stories?” I can only hear so many recollections of the days when they were wild and crazy, as if there is an expiration date on being sexually free.

It seems to me that society as a whole is missing the boat. If TV and film can continue to highlight sex, drugs and gratuitous violence – all things we flock to see on the big screen – then why can’t we simply swap tips on how to swallow semen. Seems like a reasonable request for a 21st century woman.

Cropping Daisy Ducati: It’s a good thing she’s in a stout iron restraint, because I get the impression Daisy Ducati would like to take that riding crop away from him and shove it up his ass. “Stop hitting my left nipple.”bondageblog

One of my favorite and yet more provocative sites of interest, BondageBlog, offered this tasty woman and her “restraint.” It got me thinking about the many ways of being retained and what each of the elements provide to both Doms and Subs alike.

Doms want, no demand, total control and submission. Still, struggling is a turn on as well. Subs, they want to be taken, used and restrained. Whats great about this type of restraint is that it allows for “struggling and resistance” without giving an inch. It is even more exciting and sexy for both D/s.

Personally, I prefer the same type of control, but in a softer, more pliable material. Nothing like being hogtied with leather – just enough room to squirm, but not enough give to allow for escape. In fact, leather will tighten with movement and heat.

I will say that I prefer a bit gag to a ball gag. I like the ability to breathe and still be gagged. Plus the bit allows for the horse or pony fantasies. Nothing like getting it from behind – hard and fast.

In my “down time,” I have been reading quite a bit on long term Dom/sub relationships. While the conversation focused on masturbation as a substitute for sex between Dom and Sub (Molly’s Daily Kiss), the whole talk got me thinking about masturbation in general.

Having been raised a Catholic, a Catholic who attended Mass in Latin, every week for as long as my family lived down the street from my Puerto Rican grandparents, I always felt, well, dirty after masturbating. It never stopped me. A woman needs what she needs. Still, thinking back to my childhood or to anyone’s childhood, it seems to me that “boys” masturbating is “natural.” Girls “touching themselves” is naughty.

I guess I am simply a naughty girl.

I have items to aid in my fantasies. I am a busy woman, who does not have time to “shop around” for men. Sure, I could fuck the guy from the gym, who continues to interrupt my workouts. I could suck the guy at the coffee shop who wants to “do lunch.” Honestly, it is easier and simpler to just satisfy myself. I know what I like, how I like it and where I like it. I know how hard, how long and how much. Come to think of it, aside from an occasional hand cramp, there is less work too.

While I do enjoy the sweaty, musky, muscular body of a man or woman, if the mood suits me, I do not want to feel ashamed that I can pleasure myself and do it with enthusiasm. The world is too uptight for me sometimes. I am a product of the hippie general. I love peace and love for all. Who cares if my peace and love cums with an 8″ vibrating dildo.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard, sink so deep inside you, you’ll never work me out from under your skin. Never.” — Samantha Young

While I am not into cheesy sex scenes or novels akin to a Barbara Cartland romance, I love this quote by Samantha Young.

I want to be fucked that hard,again. Hard enough that it stays with you, forever. It is difficult to get amazing sex out of your head. I know even in play, I seem to return to THAT man, in THAT moment in order to orgasm. Not always, but it is handy to have such a delightful memory that it becomes so visceral, in the moment, that you orgasm simply by remembering.

I don’t want a love affair. I don’t want intimate conversations about life. I just want to be fucked, when I feel like it. What is so wrong with that? I don’t want a commitment. I want someone to lick and suck my clit until I pass out in a euphoric orgasmic wave. Is that so much to ask for?

“Sex” is as important as eating or drinking, and we ought to allow the one appetite to be satisfied with as little restraint or false modesty as the other.” —MARQUIS DE SADE, L’Histoire de Juliette

The Marquis had it right. There is no room for restraint or modesty when it comes to sex. There are, of course, one’s tastes and predilections to consider, but even then, a person should allow herself the freedom to stretch the boundaries of her own fantasies. In the world of BDSM there are precautions put into place to assure one’s safety.

Knowing that one word will stop all actions, I surrender myself to the moment, allowing my partner to tie, bite, lick and fuck me in whatever way feels right, in the moment. I cannot say that I always enjoy every second, but then again, without some trial and error, how can I possibly discover my absolute ecstasy?

I listened to a friend of mine complain about her husband being uninspired in the bedroom, when I know this is not his wish. He too has come to me, asking how to get his wife, my friend, to engage in some fantasy roleplay. I told him to simply ask her or to surprise her with an evening of intrigue and passion. He tried both. She walked away. I say she is simply afraid.

She is not afraid because she is not passionate. She is passionate. She is afraid because she cares what people think. She cares that her husband make think she is a freak. What is that Usher song lyric – a freak in the bed and lady in the street. If my friend only knew that is what men want, really, a FREAK in the bed.

I say, get freaky! Give orders, take orders, scream, bite and claw your way to orgasm. YES!

Women I know talk about sex like it is a chore. I am not speaking of just married women either. I continue to tell them that there are many ways to find their pleasure without selling out. Being pleasured does not have to be nice or quiet or “good”. Women can ask for what they want. Women can say “tie me up, Daddy. Spank me. I’ve been bad.”

Will your man want something in return? Definitely. Do you have to obey? More than likely. Will you get off while sucking his dick? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Sex is not always about gentleness or cuddling or orgasms. Sometimes it’s simply about pure, unabridged, over the top, hot, sweaty, pleasure.

He walks in and kisses my neck, says good afternoon, then brushes my hair aside and kisses my shoulder. His hot breath is electrifying. Then he slips off the thin strap to my silk nightie, kissing my back, shoulder to shoulder. He slides his hand around my waist and pulls me close, biting my neck ever so gently. I melt into his body. He caresses my breast, slowly moving around the nipple.

He turns me around to face him and kisses me hard. I catch my breath. I gaze into those blue penetrating eyes. I cannot look away. He lifts me up onto the counter, kissing me again, pulling me to him. I slip off his t-shirt. We kiss again, this time slowly, longingly. He moves his hands over my nipples, pinching and turning each nipple until they are purple. Explosive.

His warm lips kiss the tops of my breast. I arch my back. I cannot resist. Then I feel him pull me onto him. It is so perfect. In that moment there is nothing but us, the movement, the syncing of our existence. I pull him tight. I grab him, digging my nails into his back, biting his neck the way he likes it. I tighten my thighs, wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him in, tighter. I feel his body pulse with excitement.

I recently discovered that I may have been too uptight. Not that sex is the ONLY thing necessary in a relationship, but when that connection, that passion is missing, then the relationship becomes stagnant. There has to be a fire where the molecules break away from the skin and the mind explodes into particles that circle the very spirit. I cannot say that everyone has this electrifying moment during sex, but I do believe that total release from all that exists in the physical plane does allow for an exchange of souls – liquified and reconstructed.

I now realize that being vulnerable is not a bad thing. Feeling loved does not mean you are ‘in love.” And having a good friend as a lover is a truly great gift. You can go your entire life wearing rose-colored glasses as I have or you can cast away those limited lenses and seek out all the world has to offer. I always wanted it all and maybe now I might be able to get it – if only I learn to breathe.

In a public life filled will hundreds of “don’ts,” it is a relief to be able to spend my private hours in the company of a man who doesn’t shy away from a little rough play. Sometimes a woman just wants to be tied up.

I am a powerful, independent, educated woman, who likes to be in charge, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t enjoy taking some orders. There is an equality that exists in purely sexual relationships. We both know what we like, know what drew us to each other, know what to touch, kiss, bite, twist and lick. The pleasure is ephemeral, but euphoric in that moment.

That moment when I am nearing unconsciousness either from pain or pleasure – not thinking about deadlines, meetings or conferences – but only living in that wet, writhing, orgasmic nothingness.

Another gloomy night with the rain pounding against the small windows up high on the wall and the temperatures dropping quickly towards raw and chilling outside and in. I wish Sir would turn the heat up. My nipples are full and hard from the cold and I know that means it won’t be long for his cruel little clamps to come out. Hung upside down from the cellar ceiling and facing the wall with his infernal hoists and suspension straps with my wrists fastened tightly to my thighs, I feel like a piece of meat waiting to be carved for a banquet. Oh, how I hope he devours me tonight. All because I suggested he take me out, treat me to a night on the town, show my off to the world.

And I wait… until finally, I hear his footsteps on the stairs, coming down to pay attention to me at last!

It has been a miserable day… getting word of losing a large bid, having meetings canceled and generally being unproductive from start to finish. A wasted day. One that I will never get back. And I know as I near home that she had nothing to do with it but it is she that will pay for the mood I find myself in.

As I walk through the door, I instruct her to bring me a drink and then go lock herself away in her box until called upon. A man needs his time alone to relax and reflect after all, no? As the minutes pass and the glass is emptied, I let the calm of the quiet house wash over me. My mind moves from the day’s disappointments to my woman, my wench, stowed away in the large chest at the foot of our bed. But there is still an edge to my day that will need to be tended to. Yes, it is time.

She had read my mood well and obeyed perfectly. What a wonderful object, my woman, my pet. I find her in the chest, top closed, perfectly still, awaiting me. I open the chest and offer her my hand as she struggles out of the box and onto her feet in front of me. Not a word is spoken and not a word will be the rest of the night. I give her a look, eyebrow raised, that she immediately interprets correctly as she disrobes hastily and again comes before me but on her knees with her head bowed, chest out and hands clasped behind her back. She waits patiently as I walk around her, admiring her curves and deciding just how to take my satisfaction.

I grab her hair tightly and pull her to her feet, kissing her hard with her head immobile against mine. With her eyes glued to mine, I reach down and twist her nipple long and hard. She continues gazing into my eyes but I can see the mist in them as she fights back the pain and tears …

Secured in my stocks, hands and head sticking out of the thick oak plank, too low to stand erect so she is bent over with her ass displayed proudly for me to see. After securing her ankles to the spreader bar, she is immobile and ready for the fun to begin. The long, thin paddle comes out and she bleats after each stroke on that proud butt of hers. What a wonderful ass she has! It is not until she cries out in pain that I realize that both her cheeks and her thighs are throbbing and red from the beating. I put the paddle down.

In front of the stocks now, I pull my pants off and offer her my soft cock, waving it in front of her face, just outside the reach of her mouth and tongue. After a little more teasing, I allow her to work my member to a full erection.

Walking back to her exposed womanhood, I grab a small dildo and the industrial-sized vibrator that I know is her favorite. I work the dildo into her pussy, slowly until it is well lubricated and then start moving it in and out at an easy pace. With my other hand, the vibrator is applied to her swollen clit. In what seems like no time at all I hear her whimpering as she struggles to push back against the vibrator and dildo, ready to orgasm. Of course I pull the tools back away and stand there chuckling to myself as she moans in frustration of almost being there. After a moment or two, I reapply the vibrator but replace the dildo with my now hard member, fucking her hard until she cums. But before I do, I pull out of her and slowly insert myself into her still bright red ass. At first slowly, but with building speed, it is not long until I reach satisfaction, slamming hard into her sore butt cheeks until I cum.

Leaving her in the stocks, I wander off to take my shower and ready myself for bed. Then, letting her out of the stocks, unclasping her ankles and helping her into the bed, she curls up at my feet and falls immediately into a deep and restful sleep. As I fade away into my own slumber, I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

I follow the curves, from long sleek calves to shapely and full thighs. As my vision moves up and focuses in to her beautiful round and full ass, I start to daydream about how perfect her backside would be for a finely administered spanking. I find myself imagining her lying across my knees, skirt up and panties pulled down to her knees, struggling to maintain her composure as I massage her plumpness. Tender to the touch, she lets out an almost inaudible moan of satisfaction. And then with no warning, it comes … a loud smack as my hand connects with one of her cheeks, leaving the slightest of pink imprints of my hand. And then another to the same, now more sensitive spot but harder and coming rapidly. Smack, smack, smack. She squirms as she tries to stay still, taking it as her due but I can see she is losing that battle as she tries to adjust her position to alleviate those spots that I have already turned tender and red. I keep up the tempo but start to alternate cheeks, and on each cheek different spots so before long her entire ass is one throbbing red mark from the small of her back to the crease at her thighs.

I am interrupted in my imaginings as my companion for the evening decides at that moment to say something of no consequence. When my companion sees that she has intruded upon my contemplations, she immediately understands that whatever was in my mind with be played out on her later in the evening. The rest of the evening out is uneventful as I anticipate going home for some real life play to match my earlier fantasies.

Not over my knees, not with my hand, but spanked she will be. I choose a light and flexible leather paddle as my tool as I bend her over the dining room table. I pin her arms behind her back with one hand as the other swings the paddle, not hard swings but rather quick with a flick of the wrist to effect more of a snap as it connects with her derrière. She clenches her teeth and squeezes her lips tight to hold back any acknowledgement of the pain. After several minutes, she can hold back her torment no more and lets out a small squeak. I know it is enough. Fun has been had. I take her hand and lead her to the bedroom where both our releases are assured.

My wench, hogtied, with the anal hook and vibrating vaginal insert and 2-inch O-ring gag. Her hair in a ponytail tied to the hook-end pulling her head back as far as it goes. And I, with a raging hard-on slamming my wholeness down her throat … holding it deep until she struggles for air and, after what seems like eternity, my release down her throat while she cums and cums and cums.

” … it will be painful and rigorous, and the slightest delinquencies will be requited immediately with corporal and afflicting punishments; hence, I must recommend to you prompt exactness, submissiveness, and total self-abnegation that you be enabled to heed naught but our desires; let them be your laws, fly to do their bidding, anticipate them, cause them to be born …”